<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Welcomings by AsYouCommand (OminousHummingObelisk)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834085">Welcomings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OminousHummingObelisk/pseuds/AsYouCommand'>AsYouCommand (OminousHummingObelisk)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Legends of Service Top Tarn [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Transformers (IDW Generation One)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alien anatomy, Blow Jobs, Bottom Megatron, Breeding Kink, Chastity Device, Come Inflation, Come Marking, Cunnilingus, Drug Use, Excessive Fluids, M/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Other, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Public Birth, Public Sex, Service Top Tarn, sexual fantasies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:07:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,552</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OminousHummingObelisk/pseuds/AsYouCommand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the myth cycle of Service Top Tarn takes its natural course, with Tarn being called upon to perform the ULTIMATE TOPPING DUTY OF LOVE <strike>FOR THE CAUSE</strike> in service of A RARE AND GLORIOUS NEED.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Damus|Tarn/Megatron</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Legends of Service Top Tarn [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902580</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Welcomings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In which Tarn is filled with Great Purpose and then is over-filled with something a lot more annoying.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tarn was quietly anxious all the way back to Cybertron.</p>
<p>
The war had ended. Optimus Prime's lifeless frame had been paraded in the streets and those Autobots who were willing were being carefully integrated into the rest of the populace. The prisons bulged with the unwilling, but at least they had been given the freedom of choice, the freedom to obey the tyranny of peace or to reject it - the same choice that all mecha had now.
</p><p>
What would be the fate of his unit? It was believed that, by the time the war ended, Decepticons everywhere would have elevated themselves to perfect believers in their lord's truth, thereby rendering the Justice Division obsolete. But the war had ended so suddenly, and there were still so many left on the List - surely there was still some use for them?
</p><p>
...He feared uselessness. He feared obsolescence. His only longing for all of his life was to be <i>something valuable</i> to his master, and now that the war was over...
</p><p>
His audience with Lord Megatron was simply one of many packed into one of the tyrant's ordinary working days. He didn't know what to make of the fact that he was situated in the middle of the pack, as if he were no one special; surely the commander of the Justice Division, in his official capacity, would have rated a position at the head of the line. But...no. He was left waiting in the antechamber with all the other early arrivals, though he stood stiffly at ease, eyes forward, as if he were guarding the space on behalf of his master. The others quailed under his gaze and sat still and silent until they were called. He'd gotten there several hours early, just in case his lord reconsidered his place in the schedule.
</p><p>
When his time came, he restrained any outward expression of his joy as he strode down the length of the room and knelt at the foot of the stairs that led up to Lord Megatron's jagged throne. The object had been partly cast, so he had heard, from the smelted metal of the Prime's corpse. Tarn pressed his hand reverently over the brand on his chest, eyes on the floor, and waited to be informed of his purpose.
</p><p>
"Tarn," Lord Megatron said in musing tones. "I have been quite pleased with your work throughout the war. Very thorough. Very devoted."
</p><p>
"Thank you, Lord," the commander replied, deeply gratified. "To serve is my greatest pleasure."
</p><p>
"So I have surmised. However, I need you for a different type of pleasing service now."
</p><p>
Worry and relief warred inside of Tarn's spark. At least he was not being retired into worthlessness. Perhaps his lord had noticed his impressive administrative skill, the detail with which he kept his— He hadn't even noticed that Lord Megatron had stood and descended the stairs until his lord's feet came into view, standing on the bottom step, where Tarn's eyes were fixed.
</p><p>
"Tell me, Tarn," the tyrant said, conversationally, "how fertile do you believe your transfluid to be?"
</p><p>
Tarn's optics went so wide that the eyeslits of his mask blocked out part of his vision. His vocalizer spat a garbled noise.
</p><p>
Megatron laid a hand on top of his servant's head and pushed back, making his subordinate lift his face to meet his master's gaze. "Listen to me, Tarn. Our society has not yet moved past conflict itself. The age of true peace is yet to come, and my cannon remains firmly on my arm. But we have passed into a time of rebuilding, a time when we may at least begin to shape the peace of which we have all dreamed for millions of years. Now we may reclaim the ways that, for the sake of warfare, we abandoned long ago. One such way is the path of childbearing."
</p><p>
Tarn attempted to form at least one cohesive word, failed, and made another random gurgle of static. His eyes were still so overbright that the red light reflected off of Lord Megatron's armor.
</p><p>
"I will show our entire species, through my example, that this time of new life and new possibilities has come. To that end, I intend to be the first Cybertronian in millions of years to give birth. When I considered potential sires, I thought to myself: surely there is no better choice than the most loyal of all my soldiers. Wouldn't you agree?"
</p><p>
"Master," Tarn was finally able to say, though his brain hadn't yet fully reset itself, "I will give everything to serve you."
</p><p>
"Good. Let's hope your everything will do the trick in my tank. Take yourself to the medical sector and have them draw a sample to test as a formality, then come to my chambers at 2100 to start work. I expect the best from you."
</p><p>
"Yes, Lord," Tarn managed. "Thank you, Lord."
</p><p>
"Don't make me regret my decision, Tarn. Dismissed."
</p><hr/>
<p>
Tarn sat on the medical slab and absently rubbed at his abdomen over the spot where Hook had used an unnecessarily large needle to pull some of his transfluid out of his tank. He was glad that he hadn't been required to provide a sample in a more...traditional way. Already, he felt like he was vibrating under his armor with the joy of his new purpose combined with the horror of realizing that he had no idea how to sexually satisfy the Tyrant of Cybertron.
</p><p>
Of course, Tarn was no virgin, but his experiences <i>had</i> been rather thin on the ground and he hadn't been especially concerned, at the time, with whether he could be considered a spectacular lover. He guessed that he was adequate. Nobody had complained, but possibly no one had dared to. But Lord Megatron deserved far more than merely <i>adequate</i>. He deserved to be made love to, to receive only the most glorious peaks of bliss, to have his body ravished by only the most skillful of hands, the most passionate of mouths, the most prodigious of all spikes. And Tarn...did not consider himself to be the equal of that task. He was rapidly approaching panic, in fact, and was trying to think of where he could find some classical lovemaking manuals to download directly into his cortex.
</p><p>
"Well, there they are. Looks healthy enough to me." Tarn lifted his gaze to where Hook was standing in front of a large microscanner screen. The commander's datapackets were displayed there at head size, all of them wiggling around as they jostled each other with their chaotic little repulsor fields. Tarn stared fearfully at them, glad that his mask hid all of his miserable expressions from the public. Would these datapackets, healthy or no, be enough to spark his all-powerful master? Or would they fail him? He imagined, with terror, his lord's disapproval - <i>don't make me regret my decision</i>, he'd said.
</p><p>
"As long as they will do their work as needed," Tarn replied, just to have something to say. 
</p><p>
"Well, Lord Megatron knows what he's doing. I'm sure it'll go exactly as planned."
</p><p>
Before Tarn could take any comfort from that declaration, a snort echoed from across the room. "Sometimes, code just isn't compatible," Ratchet said. "No way to know ahead of time without batteries of fertility tests, most of which we no longer have the technology for. It'll be a crapshoot, as it is." He turned back to scrubbing glassware.
</p><p>
"Did anybody <i>ask</i> for your opinion, Autobot?" Hook snapped.
</p><p>
"It's not an opinion; it's fact, you useless hack. Don't give that lunk false hope. Or do you know any damn thing about obstetrics at all?"
</p><p>
"I'll have you know that I—"
</p><p>
Tarn seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Thankfully, his voice stayed perfectly level. "We will know after tonight, then, whether it will take or not." One night. He could suffer with not knowing for one night.
</p><p>
"No, we won't," Ratchet said, having gotten the jump on his more purple coworker. "The sparklet doesn't differentiate its own corona until two weeks after conception. We don't have the right scanners to be able to pick it up inside the carrier's spark any sooner. In two weeks, it'll show up on a standard one."
</p><p>
"I could have told you that," Hook griped, sulking.
</p><p>
"...Two weeks?"
</p><p>
"Mm-hmm. And I wouldn't get your hopes up even then." Ratchet unfolded a microabraider out of a finger and started sanding off a patch of cooked-on crud. "Megatron's been reframed so many times throughout the war that I'd fully expect his spark to have jettisoned his reproductive functions as part of an automatic efficiency boost. He might not be fertile at all."
</p><p>
The insult grounded Tarn, and he slid off the slab to loom and speak in dire tones. "You will refer to him as <i>Lord</i> Megatron, Citizen. And I will not hear you disparaging his frame. He knows no weakness."
</p><p>
"O-kay, well, you do your thing."
</p><p>
"Shhh!" Hook hissed at him, wringing his hands as he tried to shrink in the face of Tarn's chastisement.
</p><p>
Unfortunately, Lord Megatron would be upset if Tarn killed any of his precious medics, so he was forced to stand down. "I will hear only respect out of you in the future, medic, or we will <i>have words.</i>" He swept out of the room, his body showing no indication of how much fear he harbored.
</p><hr/>
<p>
He had hours left until 2100, and they were the worst torment that he had personally experienced in...he didn't know how long. The waiting. The worrying. The lack of any way to prepare. He couldn't exactly practice using his spike without <i>actually</i> using it, and he feared that if he did, he wouldn't regenerate enough fluid before the event itself to give a proper offering at the altar of his master's fertility.
</p><p>
He sat on the edge of his bed and cradled his head in his hands, helpless. He was aware that the worry itself was affecting his ability to concentrate and would no doubt affect his ability to perform - even now, he felt so paralyzed at the thought of even looking at his lord's divine opening that not the slightest hint of interest stirred behind his panels. 
</p><p>
Of course he'd masturbated to thoughts of Lord Megatron before. What pink-blooded Decepticon warrior hadn't? But part of the exciting thing about those fantasies was their lord's untouchability, his distance, the transcendent tower of mechhood that he represented. Lord Megatron was too far away to be offended by one mech sobbing his name while squirting under a pillow or fisting his own valve.
</p><p>
It was his master's sudden <i>attainability</i> that filled him with such terror. Lord Megatron would be right there, judging whatever intimacies were performed in the light of his glory.
</p><p>
What was he going to <i>do?</i>
</p><p>
...It would be fine if he did it just this once. Maybe, after the first time, he would know better what to do and he wouldn't need it anymore. Tarn stood and opened the false bottom of a drawer in his nightstand. Inside, among others much like it, was a small bag with only a half-dozen pills left inside. Concerning. He would need to restock soon. 
</p><p>
It was something that he used only when the anxiety became too great, only when it threatened to overwhelm him enough that it might affect his ability to do his work, to be the unassailable pillar of Decepticon justice that he could never fail to be. It filed down all his edges without dulling or deadening him; in fact, the calm seemed to grant him an unusual degree of clarity, a kind of piercing insight that he felt that his mind was too chaotic, ordinarily, to manifest. If he had his way, he would never be off this drug, but the side effects on processor functioning that could manifest after long-term reliance were something that he could not risk. He might even take it too often already, as it was...
</p><p>
Best of all, he knew for a fact that, unlike most other tranquilizers, this one did not affect sexual function. <i>Perfect.</i>
</p><p>
He swallowed two.
</p><hr/>
<p>
2100. Tarn stood before the front door of his lord's apartments, deep in the corridors of the government building. The tyrant would not tolerate any thoughts of palaces being raised for his residence and had simply carved out a space for himself in his seat of government. Two doormecha - there to dismiss the rabble, not to actually ensure Lord Megatron's safety - had already nodded to him and indicated that he could enter.
</p><p>
The tranquilizer was working perfectly. There had been not the slightest falter in his step, no waver in his mind; his spark had dropped into absolute calm. With the clarity of the drug, he realized that his lord would no doubt demonstrate how he liked to be taken care of, and Tarn would learn those ways as quickly as he was shown them and thus know exactly what needed to be done, now and in the future. Everything would be fine.
</p><p>
He entered the apartments, which he had never been in before, and found himself in a comfortable sitting area. "Tarn?" Lord Megatron called through the open door to a dark room. 
</p><p>
"Here, Lord," the commander replied.
</p><p>
"Come in." A bedside lamp came on, illuminating his lord's simple bed on one side of the dark space. Lord Megatron released the lamp switch and lowered himself onto the mattress, his red eyes piercing his servant.
</p><p>
Even through his chemical tranquility, a bolt of fear made Tarn hesitate a moment before stepping through the door. He approached, taking in his master's relaxed sprawl and quirked half-smile. "Come down, Tarn," Lord Megatron invited, patting the bed beside him.
</p><p>
Tarn lifted a knee to climb onto the bed, but paused before lowering himself. "Lord, would you like me to remove the mask?" It was unthinkable in any other situation, with any other person, but his lord owned his face just as he owned the rest of his servant.
</p><p>
"Hmm." Lord Megatron reached up and took hold of his chin, looking speculatively at his masked face. He drew the tank in until Tarn was bowed over him, utterly pliable in his hands. The tyrant settled a lingering kiss across the mouth-slit. "Leave it on," he whispered against the metal, and Tarn gave a shaky exhalation as need began to fill him at last. 
</p><p>
Yes. Yes. His lord wanted this. His lord wanted <i>him.</i>
</p><p>
Before he could settle himself further onto the bed, his master's hand slipped lower to wrap around his throat and gripped him hard. "Listen to me. Some mecha have foolish beliefs about those who use valves versus those who use cables. And I will not tolerate such foolishness from you. It was one reason why I chose you - because I believed that you would never think less of me for what I mean to do."
</p><p>
"I never would, master," Tarn insisted. "I will not allow anyone to mock you for what you desire."
</p><p>
Lord Megatron smiled and released his throat to pat his cheek. "I knew that I could trust you, my loyal one. Now...to work." There was the sound of transforming panels, and Tarn looked down and suddenly <i>there it was</i>, there was the wonder that he would never in millions of years have imagined that he would see - his master's tidily-furled valve. "Now show me yours," Lord Megatron said, still smiling.
</p><p>
Tarn struggled for a moment to find the commands to pull back his own panels, poleaxed by the vision before him, but eventually he managed and his spike extended, already nearly hard. His lust had skyrocketed in the last thirty seconds, his artificial calm giving way to simple eagerness to please. He wanted his spike to be a tool that his master could use for his enjoyment.
</p><p>
"Hmm." Lord Megatron reached out and stroked a fingertip along the underside of the head, making the shaft bounce in midair. He casually put his other hand on his valve and began to massage the close pucker where all his curled protoform petals were nestled together. "Don't touch. Just let me look." Tarn stayed kneeling on the mattress by his side, his spike describing a loose arch out from his groin, and stared openly as Megatron spread his legs a little wider and put both hands on himself to pet his opening in earnest.
</p><p>
"Now touch yourself," Lord Megatron commanded after a few minutes. He'd warmed behind his fingers, unfolding long, firm pads of black protoform as he'd stared steadily at Tarn's spike, which had hardened fully as he'd watched his lord in turn; he was becoming ever more aroused by the sight of the tyrant's perfect shape, perfect slicks of oil, and the perfect, rich smell of the lust that rose from between his legs. He was almost afraid to touch himself for fear that he was far <i>too</i> ready for pleasure, so he only ghosted his fingertips along his length and took note of how a drop of cleaning liquid beaded out from his tip. The worried little voice that the drug had mostly silenced gnawed on the back of his mind, wondering if his member was being judged as suitable for his master's purpose. Surely it was, or else Lord Megatron would not stare so fixedly at it while loosening up his beautiful valve.
</p><p>
"Now...come here." Lord Megatron moved himself farther down the bed until he was nearly reclining, propped up now only on his elbows. Tarn rose and tried to arrange himself on his knees between his lord's legs. His master was still staring at his erection. "It's been some time since I've done this," he murmured, and reached down to take hold of Tarn's length. Tarn gasped as the fingers closed around him and bit his lip to prevent the eagerness from surging up inside of him and out through his cable. He let himself be led, gradually lowering himself as Lord Megatron drew him in by his spike-head, guiding him toward the clutch of his valve.
</p><p>
And then Lord Megatron put him inside, sliding his servant's tip through the muscular ring of his inner petals and settling it within his channel. He let himself down until he was fully prone, his eyes meeting Tarn's as the tank followed him, gently pushing inward with a soft sound until he was buried full-length inside his beloved. Megatron let a long rush of air out through his vents and reached up to pat Tarn's lower back. "That's good," he said. "That's comfortable. I like your shape." A burst of joy rushed through Tarn's entire body - he had stood up beneath his lord's judgement and not been found wanting.
</p><p>
"Start slow," Lord Megatron commanded, still petting Tarn's back. Propped up on his forearms, Tarn gently slid himself out and then back in, keeping a careful pace, letting his lord's comfort dictate his every action.
</p><p>
It escalated quickly. Within a handful of minutes, he'd graduated to a frantic hammering while Megatron screamed, "Harder! <i>Harder!!</i>" and clutched his body with all four limbs such that it was difficult for Tarn to pull back enough to make his thrusts properly brutal. Lord Megatron was panting and writhing underneath him, lifting his hips so Tarn could penetrate as far as possible into him. The tank heard the sheets tear as he clawed at the bed, gripping deep into it to get enough of a purchase to go even harder. 
</p><p>
He'd been afraid, he remembered, of becoming overwhelmed with lust and being unable to last any time at all, disappointing his lord with only a momentary hardness and an unsatisfying climax, but no, he found that his obedience gave him discipline - the lust raged through his body, but he was so eager to do this for his master, to provide this service that had Lord Megatron sobbing and scratching at his plating, that he knew that he could not finish until he was commanded. Oh, he wanted this to last forever, this wonderful experience of giving such pleasure to his lord—
</p><p>
"<i>Tarn! I'm— I'm—</i>" Lord Megatron broke off into a roar and clenched down hard around Tarn's length. The tank felt the rapid rippling of his climaxing valve and realized that that was his master's body urging the transfluid out of his lover-servant so he could suck it deep, deep into his gestation tank— He gave an answering cry and released the long stream of his data-seed at the peak of Lord Megatron's valve, right into the eager little tank-mouth that throbbed against him as it received his gift. Never had anything in his life been more perfect.
</p><p>
They laid gasping for several minutes more, recovering from their bliss. Tarn was still buried deep inside his beloved, still half-hard. He was content, more calm and sweet than any drug had ever made him, his arms around his precious one and his head resting on Lord Megatron's shoulder.
</p><p>
And then Lord Megatron rolled them to one side and lifted himself up over his mate without letting Tarn slide free of him. Smirking down at the tank with a challenging air, he began to slowly ride the cable inside of him. Tarn looked down at where they were joined and saw his own silver spill dripping out of Lord Megatron himself, streaking across Tarn's pelvic armor, and between that and the stroking valve he was immediately firm again. The tyrant chuckled and rode him even harder, and then they were in that perfect, flowing space again, Lord Megatron with his head thrown back in bliss, Tarn clutching at his thighs and moaning a half-coherent litany of desperate affection. Then his lord climaxed again, grinding down hard around Tarn's spike-root, and again his servant imagined the blazing forge inside Lord Megatron's belly, the hungry place of creation that needed Tarn's data-seed to bloom into new life, and he howled as he pushed, straining to empty himself even more thoroughly into those fertile depths.
</p><p>
He was filled with more than just a simple lust for the most perfect being in creation. He felt the craving for Lord Megatron's fecundity rushing into all the cracks in his mind, driving him into to a kind of divine madness as he realized how eager he was to sow himself in his master, to fill him up with fluid so that he would swell with a child of Tarn's sparking. It drove him to a panting, snarling sweetness as he pounded into his beloved's valve for a third time, his hips streaked with what he had already spent in that blessed place, his lord's legs wrapped tight around him as the <i>more more yes yes oh yes</i> served as the command that drove all his reason away.
</p><p>
They were both gasping and exhausted after that third round. Tarn had rolled off Lord Megatron to one side, leaving his soft but still extended spike draped over his lord's thigh. When he had enough command of himself to open his eyes, he saw the silver puddling out on the bed around his master's groin and excitement stirred tiredly in him at the knowledge that he had put all of that there. Every drop contained millions of datapackets, each one carrying Tarn's information, existing only to transfer that CNA code into his master's gestation system. So much of it was still inside, drawn up into Lord Megatron's ready tank and even now being processed inside of him—
</p><p>
"Very good, Tarn," Lord Megatron panted. "You do not disappoint."
</p><p>
Joy poured through his servant again. "There is nothing that I want more, Lord."
</p><p>
After several more minutes, Tarn realized that, despite all their cooling fluids, he was becoming comfortable enough by his lord's side to feel himself drifting off into defrag. Perhaps he should not presume. "My lord, shall I clean up and go?"
</p><p>
"Hmm." Lord Megatron's eyes were already closed. "No. I want you here in case I need you during the night. And I'll want you again in the morning."
</p><p>
Tarn had never been more grateful to serve.
</p><hr/>
<p>
Despite his tiredness, Tarn had not been able to fall asleep immediately; he had been enraptured by the sight of his lord drifting off into recharge. That stern face, calm and relaxed in repose, filled him with such overwhelming tenderness that he could not look away. The simple happiness that filled him pooled inside of his array and he felt an overwhelming urge to pleasure himself - valve, spike, it didn't matter which - as if the feeling that rushed through him needed some outward expression to be fully completed. It was only by a desperate strength of will that he kept from touching himself and was eventually able to lay his head down on his lord's pillows and drift off. 
</p><p>
Lord Megatron did not wake during the night, but he did make good on his promise the following morning. Tarn awoke at the sense of a heaviness settling on his body and found his master already straddling his hips, valve bared and ready. "I want you," he said simply, reaching down to pump Tarn's still-waking spike with his fist. Tarn arched up into the grip with a moan and hardened quickly, delighting in the feeling of being used as he lay beneath his lord and watched that powerful body heaving up and down his length with increasing speed and power. His transfluid had regenerated during the night and he was gratified to feel how much fertility he was able to pour out into his master. 
</p><p>
Lord Megatron sighed with satisfaction after it was done and dismounted from his servant. Fresh fluid dripped down his inner thighs as he slid off the bed - possibly the most erotic thing that Tarn had ever seen short of his master's spreading valve. His still-eager spike felt a craving for stimulation; he wanted to spray himself across their well-used sheets just at the memory of that sight as his lord disappeared into the washracks. To think, even now an invisible sparklet could have been struck from his master after their exertions the night before, his body already priming for it to descend into his gestation tank and grow and grow as evidence of Tarn's successful efforts at impregnating that magnificent being— He bit into his treacherous fist to halt that train of thought before it became unstoppable. 
</p><p>
"Clean up out there and then come wash up," his lord commanded as solvent began to run. Tarn peeled himself off their damp and/or sticky sheets and began to strip them off the mattress. As he bundled them into the laundry chute, he felt some regret that the cleaning would be done only by drones down beneath the building. Something prideful inside of him wished that another mech could unfold the meshes and be overwhelmed by the evidence of the fine work that had so pleased his master, the copious puddles of liquid that indicated how thoroughly they had made love the night before in service to Lord Megatron's wish for a child.
</p><p>
The washracks were large enough for both of them to fit closely together. Much to Tarn's sorrow, his lord did not indulge in the traditional sex in the shower and simply cleaned himself efficiently before stepping into the air dryer. Tarn took his turn afterward, and when he emerged, Lord Megatron had already departed for his shift. Tarn felt a little disappointed that they would not be sharing breakfast or doing anything else bonding-like, but he pushed down the sadness and returned to his own quarters to refuel.
</p><p>
He was scheduled to meet with Lord Megatron at the medical sector after shift-end for an examination, during which the tyrant received the same information about the two-week lag with ill grace. Upon being questioned in detail about the lack of fertility-related technology, Ratchet pointed out very sensibly how there had been absolutely no call for such equipment for millions of years and then launched into a description of the type of nanocircuitry required to rebuild the tech, which would itself require more specialty tech just to build the parts and— Lord Megatron had waved off the explanation by that point and turned to Tarn. "We will have to keep trying for at least two weeks, then, in case the spark is struck at some point in that span; it cannot be left up to chance."
</p><p>
"Understood, Lord," the tank said, outwardly stoic but humming inside every strut with joyous anticipation. Much as he wanted his fluid to be instantly successful at its work, he felt an understandable need to continue having access to the most flawless specimen of their entire species. He felt his spike twitch inside of him even now, as if in the hope that his master would lay himself down on a medical slab and demand that they recommence their coupling immediately. Of course, it was not to be, and Tarn had to remain achingly unsatisfied until 2100. 
</p><p>
He was much more confident about this second night and found no need to take his drug, as his crippling anxiety had been replaced by simple, lustful eagerness. He knew now that his lord appreciated enthusiasm instead of esoteric erotic arts and believed that he could perform to standard once again. Lord Megatron met him in the sitting room with a cube of fuel, handing it over with a half-smile and a comment about keeping up his strength.
</p><p>
...What did that mean? Was he reading too much into it, or was Lord Megatron suggesting that he had been too weak the night before to be truly satisfying? Tarn felt himself beginning to worry again as he was led toward the bed and watched his master lower himself comfortably back against the pillows.
</p><p>
This time, his lord wanted him to stand at the foot of the bed and play with himself while his master made his valve ready, those brilliant eyes fixed on Tarn's groin as he stroked and squeezed his cable - carefully, carefully, not wanting to accidentally make himself finish prematurely. And then Megatron again guided him down, gripping the head of his erection and pulling it in at his own pace before sliding it inside himself. Tarn had the sense that this was his master's way of affirming his dominance in the situation, in case there was any thought of him as weak or submissive because of his use of his valve. The servant, naturally, had no thoughts of that sort whatsoever, but was pleased to accept anything that his master wished to do. 
</p><p>
Soon they were back to hammering and screaming, Lord Megatron continually urging him for more, harder, faster until Tarn's consciousness was reduced to a mindless blur of obedience and lust; steam began to rise from his vents and joints as he pushed his frame to its absolute limit in his efforts to properly punish his lord's hungry valve...as well as the hungry tank behind it. He was reveling in it now, his overloads rapturous not only because of the physical bliss involved but because of that awareness of his own fertility, his lord's receptiveness, the possibility that, even at that moment, one of his datapackets could be passed upward to dissolve into his lord's spark and induce it to bud offspring. Tarn would do that; Tarn would be the cause of it, his rich fluid the source of the new life that would stretch his lord's belly.
</p><p>
It was after their third round that a strange, shy urge filled Tarn, though he tried to keep it to himself. Finally, Lord Megatron growled, "Your field is scrambled. Is something bothering you?"
</p><p>
"Lord...," Tarn asked hesitantly. "May I lick you? There?"
</p><p>
Megatron chuckled and spread his legs wider. "Very well. A little. I think I might be done for now."
</p><p>
Tarn removed his mask - still more shy from the exposure, but Lord Megatron's eyes were closed again - and knelt awkwardly on the edge of the mattress so that he could angle his head upside-down between his lord's thighs. The beautiful valve was still uncovered, still not fully folded back up into its resting state. Yes, he had been the cause of that too, and it filled him with servile pride - his spike had aroused his master so, had spread him open and made him wet and wide before filling him with data-seed. He had never before felt an attraction toward licking a valve, particularly one that had been so well-used, but now the longing consumed him and he immediately applied his tongue to the curling petals. The taste of their blended fluids filled his mouth, and Lord Megatron purred as Tarn sucked the thick pads, determined now that he would clean his lord's entire valve with his mouth. And he did, with the opening unfolding more under his ministrations but never reaching its peak - only a relaxed arousal. He finished his labor and watched all its layers roll back up with the satisfaction of a job well done.
</p><p>
Since he was already in position... "Lord, do you use your cable?"
</p><p>
"I do."
</p><p>
"May I suck you?"
</p><p>
Lord Megatron chuckled again, his eyes slitting back open as he smiled. "Very active tonight, are we? I would like that." He folded back the other half of his modesty panels, revealing his perfect spike-housing, which irised open immediately. Tarn was privileged to behold the emergence of the tip of the most glorious spike in existence, and he leaned over his master to quickly take it in his mouth. He had never sucked spike before, but hoped that enthusiasm would serve him well here too, as he was so delighted to perform the act on his lord that he drew hard on it, licked it, and kissed it with frantic abandon. It was so beautiful, swelling so wonderfully into his mouth, and he was so happy to see it extend for him. He locked his intake tube hatch open when it became too long to fit in his mouth alone, and his lord rumbled with a deeper pleasure as it began to push back into the tighter space.
</p><p>
His lord put a hand on the back of his head, holding him in place, and began to lift his hips, humping Tarn's face from below with short, fast thrusts; the tank's nose rapped against his master's pelvic plating as Lord Megatron shoved himself deep into Tarn's mouth. Without any warning, he grunted and began to spurt hard down his servant's throat; Tarn flinched with surprise but began to swallow quickly, gulping down the thick spray with profound gratitude. When his lord had finished, he released Tarn's head and relaxed back onto the pillows with a contented sigh, his sated spike beginning to retract. Tarn let it slip out of his mouth at its own pace, giving the tip a final lick before it disappeared and the iris closed back over it.
</p><p>
He kept swallowing, wanting the fluid that coated his throat to make its way faster into his fuel tank. He was acutely aware of his master's fertility as well, and felt such adoration as he held his lord's datapackets inside of himself, even if only in the wrong tank. How perfect it would be to have them in a more proper place, to also feel himself fertilized by their magnificent leader, to bear him all the children that he wished...
</p><p>
Lord Megatron did wake during the night. Tarn had kept his panels open and stirred once he felt strong fingers rubbing at the recessed tip of his spike; he extended and firmed quickly and his lord rolled without ceremony to haul Tarn on top of him. His servant was thrusting eagerly in moments. Lord Megatron purred with pleasure, spreading his legs wider as Tarn went harder and faster without being commanded. As always, he contained himself until he felt his lord's valve beginning to tug hard at him and only then erupted against the opening of that precious gestation tank. It was bliss, to know how much his lord wanted him, enjoyed what they did together, needed Tarn's data-seed filling him—
</p><p>
Impulsively, he leaned down and kissed his master's beloved mouth, the mouth that had spoken so many words that had changed their entire species. Megatron smiled, his eyes already closed again, and kissed him back.
</p><p>
They mated again in the morning as well, and Tarn's life had never been more wonderful.
</p><hr/>
<p>
Despite his new state of perpetual starry-eyed bliss, Lord Megatron's comment about <i>keeping up his strength</i> haunted him after he left his master's quarters that day. What did it <i>mean</i>, and how could he ensure that it was never a problem? His lord had always seemed pleasantly exhausted after every round, so it seemed that his bodily strength was surely not the issue. ...Could it refer to the "strength" of his data-seed? Did his lord have some sense that it was...inadequate?
</p><p>
He could not fail in the face of his master's need. Lord Megatron was relying on him to be appropriately fertile. Tarn had no substances in his <i>collection</i> that had anything to do with sexual prowess, so he would need to ask the experts.
</p><p>
Apparently he'd swooped into the medical sector too aggressively. "How may I enhance the strength of my transfluid?" was met by Hook's panicked, "Uh??"
</p><p>
"You heard me," Tarn rumbled.
</p><p>
"Strength?" Ratchet asked from across the room, where he was doing some kind of inventory busywork. "Do you mean relative fertility or...?"
</p><p>
"Anything of that nature."
</p><p>
"Fertility's fertility," Ratchet observed without turning around. "Your packets had perfect motility back when we sampled you. There's really nothing more to do there."
</p><p>
"There must be <i>something</i>," Tarn grated darkly.
</p><p>
"Well, there's always...volume," Hook ventured.
</p><p>
"Oh hell. Don't start," Ratchet grumbled.
</p><p>
"Tell me," Tarn commanded.
</p><p>
"Well, it's rather simple. You have perfectly good transfluid. Putting more <i>in</i> could, rationally, increase the chances of fertilization by the simple expedient of having more packets active."
</p><p>
"That makes sense. Now tell me how."
</p><p>
"Don't do it," Ratchet warned.
</p><p>
Hook shushed him loudly. "There's an...enhancement substance that we still have the formula for, which I can easily synthesize—"
</p><p>
"Do it. Immediately." Hook rushed over to a molecular assembler and began tapping keys and scanning databases with the utmost haste. In a few minutes, he presented Tarn with a bit of innocuous-looking liquid in a small beaker. "I swallow it?" Tarn asked dubiously.
</p><p>
"Yes, you—" Tarn lifted the faceplate of his mask and knocked it back like a shot.
</p><p>
"I will hold you responsible if I notice no changes," Tarn informed him grimly before sweeping back out of the medbay.
</p><hr/>
<p>
He certainly did notice a change. Over the course of the day, he began to feel an increased draw on his fueling system combined with a sense of pressure in his abdomen around his transfluid tank. Was it getting...larger? The feeling of unusual fullness built up behind his spike until, by 2100, he was almost uncomfortably in need of emptying it.
</p><p>
But the results were wonderful. He could certainly tell that his offerings of fluid lasted significantly longer than they had before, making him delightedly imagine his master being stuffed so full of his datapackets that he would begin looking a little pregnant already. It never actually happened, but just the thought was delicious. Lord Megatron didn't appear to notice the increased volume or react much differently than he had before, though, which eventually deadened Tarn's satisfaction with the performance enhancer. If his master couldn't tell the difference between before and after, then it was clearly insufficient, and something more needed to be done. Worry began to gnaw at him again, a fear of being too sexually <i>weak</i> to be considered a quality sire for his lord's offspring.
</p><p>
"My lord?" he asked during one of the quiet times between rounds as they lay tangled together on top of the torn, stained sheets.
</p><p>
"Hm?"
</p><p>
"If we fail to strike a spark together...what then?"
</p><p>
"I will use another sire, of course. I have a list that I plan to work my way down, if necessary. No matter how long it takes, I will have what I'm after."
</p><p>
The echo of Ratchet's warning about Lord Megatron's possible infertility rose in Tarn's mind, making him fear that their efforts might fail for reasons out of his own control, but...surely such a thing would not happen. Lord Megatron succeeded at everything to which he turned his radiant intellect and unbreakable will; if he meant to carry, then it was inevitable that he would. Even if it meant that Tarn would be discarded along the way.
</p><p>
He thought with growing horror about who could possibly be next on his master's list of sires. The logical choice would be...his second-in-command, but surely...surely not. Surely not that cowardly, smirking, utterly <i>traitorous</i> flying trash of a Seeker, supposed tactical genius or no. Unbidden, a vision came to him of them on this very bed, with Starscream dropping mocking comments even as he settled himself arrogantly between Lord Megatron's thighs as if he owned that space. Tarn imagined his scrawny little spike spitting thin fluid into their master's transcendent fecundity; he imagined that disgusting offering taking root in Lord Megatron's forge and their master plump and heavy from the Seeker's inferior data-seed. Starscream would be even more insufferable than usual, preening and strutting as he took all the credit for their lord's condition.
</p><p>
No. He could not allow it to happen. He was Lord Megatron's first choice; he would prove himself worthy of that trust.
</p><p>
Perhaps he was doing something right - for their last round of the evening, Lord Megatron did not directly control Tarn's entry into him but rather lifted himself on all fours and simply commanded <i>mount me!</i> and Tarn had hastened to obey. He wrapped his arms around his lord's waist and humped him like a turbofox, panting out of his vents like a mechanimal. <i>Yes! yes! Yes!</i> came from underneath him and he felt infinitely gratified, rutting even harder as Lord Megatron pushed his rump back against him wantonly. Tarn felt his extra-copious dose of transfluid rush out of him and against that little opening deep inside his lord, and he became determined to do whatever it took to succeed.
</p><hr/>
<p>
"It worked well, but not enough," Tarn told Hook the next morning, after his lord had again, delightedly, permitted his servant to enter him without his direct guidance.
</p><p>
Hook wrung his hands and avoided eye contact. "Well, I'm not sure what else—"
</p><p>
"If there is nothing else, then double the dose."
</p><p>
"Ah, w-well—"
</p><p>
Ratchet looked up slowly from where he'd been mopping the floor, wonderment on his face. "Are you an absolute <i>idiot?</i>" he asked curiously.
</p><p>
"<i>Obey. My. <b>Command</b></i>," Tarn roared into their sparks, both of them wincing as they staggered on their feet. How fortunate they were that Lord Megatron's word protected their lives, though Tarn saw no reason to inform them of the fact. Terror was such an efficient motivator.
</p><p>
Case in point: Hook scrambled for the molecular assembler and rapidly produced twice as much liquid as before, presenting it with shaking hands. Tarn shot the double, already feeling calmer. His lord would surely notice his prowess tonight.
</p><hr/>
<p>
Tarn had been released from all of his previous obligations temporarily, his only duty now being his attendance to his lord's sexual needs. He disliked the inactivity and would have preferred to be embedded in some kind of bureaucracy if nothing else; paperwork and filing and procedures would have helped to soothe his often-anxious spark. But his "work" now was so unspeakably pleasant that he could regret no part of it, and so he settled onto his bed with a copy of <i>Towards Peace</i> to wait until 2100.
</p><p>
...If only his lord would call for his servant at other times, since Tarn's only purpose now was pleasuring him. Mmm, how wonderful it would be if Lord Megatron would summon him to his audience hall between meetings for a quick round that would perhaps run overtime, the next scheduled appointment being forced to wait out in the antechamber until the tyrant had roared out his shattering climax; everyone would hear it and know, when Tarn walked out of the throne room's doors, exactly what they had been doing in the middle of the day. And Lord Megatron would casually, without missing a beat, pick up his schedule exactly where he'd left off with his panels closed over a tankful of Tarn's transfluid.
</p><p>
It would be even better if the throne was involved somehow. Tarn would so delight in making love across Optimus Prime's dead metal.
</p><p>
All his thoughts had distracted him thoroughly from his reading, making him stare off into middle distance with a dreamy smile on his face and a throbbing pressure behind his spike. Oh, that was not becoming, not even in private. He hastily returned to his bookmarked screen and began filling his mind with Lord Megatron's brilliance.
</p><p>
...Filling. Soon, he would be filling Lord Megatron's brilliance - his wonderful, beautiful, all-consuming birthing equipment, which was just as perfect as the rest of him. The performance enhancer would help for certain tonight, he was sure. His master would notice and be even more pleased with how well Tarn's body responded to him, how eager it clearly was to give him everything that he needed to conceive. Tarn was proud of his devotion to this particular aspect of the Cause.
</p><p>
And how satisfying it would be when success was his! He imagined Lord Megatron smiling at him with stern approval when the medics scanned his spark and found the little bud attached to it; he imagined what it would be like when the sparklet descended into the gestation tank, where raw materials would be broken down to begin assembling the large, soft body of the sparkling. Lord Megatron's abdominal plating would slowly part over his growing pregnancy, his lower body grown huge with new life. And he would not be a delicate carrier, waddling clumsily about and slacking off for the sake of increased rest. No, he would be an example to them all, his posture straight and his movement vigorous, belly bouncing back and forth as he strode through the halls of government.
</p><p>
It was good, so common wisdom said, for a sire to continue providing transfluid to aid in the construction of the sparkling during the carry, and oh, Tarn would not fail in his attentiveness. And perhaps Lord Megatron, once his condition became obvious, would be even more cavalier about such activities... Tarn imagined being summoned to the command center, where dozens of mecha busily attended their consoles and their lord's throne towered above them all. He imagined Lord Megatron walking down among his subordinates, looking over their work with a keen eye, and when Tarn arrived he would simply bend over wherever he was, arms braced on the edge of some random worker's station, and pull back his panels to reveal his flawless, dripping valve. 
</p><p>
He would not even have to ask - Tarn would be bare and hard in an instant, and buried inside his master in an instant more, slamming hard into that precious backside as he devotedly provided service. How the workers' cheeks would heat and their eyes turn aside as Lord Megatron's enormous belly swayed underneath him with the force of Tarn's thrusting, the child within ready to be bathed in his sire's healthful fluid. They would all be heating behind their panels, all of them secretly aroused by the sight. 
</p><p>
And Starscream would be right there, staring furiously from across the room, his wings trembling and his hands curling into fists with impotent rage as he jealously coveted Tarn's place inside their lord. Oh, he would <i>wish</i> that he had been good enough earn the right to seed their tyrant, but here was another who would always be better than him, and he would know it, <i>know</i> his inferiority when he saw—
</p><p>
And there he was, drifting again, apparently so overcome with lust now that his body felt too small to contain his sexual equipment. ...Wait. There had been pressure before— He touched his abdomen and, sure enough, his transfluid tank had far less give under his armor than usual. Excellent, the drug was working. He felt the now-familiar drain on his fueling systems - faster now, but he suspected that that was due to the increased dose - and got up to drink an extra couple of cubes. He could not allow his other strengths to flag tonight, after all.
</p><p>
Laying back down was distinctly uncomfortable. He tried sitting up more, laying down more, rolling onto one side - nothing was tolerable. Reluctantly, he traced the source of the problem back to his transfluid tank, which was growing very firm indeed deep inside of him.
</p><p>
...Standing up would help, he decided. It would keep all his internals in their natural order. He would take a walk among the troops, reminding them that he was always watching and judging. It would be invigorating.
</p><p>
When he stood up, he had an odd feeling, like his plating was overlapping the top of his pelvic armor for some reason.
</p><p>
The walk was not invigorating. It became increasingly difficult, in fact, as he realized that his transfluid tank was continuing to convert fuel into fertile liquid at a rapid pace with no sign of slowing down. The fullness inside of him increased until it became a tightness, then a near-painful discomfort. He could distinctly feel his internal components being shifted aside to make room for the flexible tank, which had started out deep within and was now, he was sure, pushing directly against the flexmetal underneath his armor. He never let his stride or his piercing glance falter, but he noticed that, with increasing frequency, some of the cowed populace were giving him odd doubletakes before slinking out of sight.
</p><p>
It was intolerable, and it felt so strange— Finally, he found a side corridor that seemed isolated enough and hid himself down at the end of it. It ached when he bent over to look at his abdomen, and when he lifted his hands to touch as he hadn't dared to do while walking among the public, it—!
</p><p>
It was as if he was growing pregnant himself. The plates of his abdominal armor were separated, leaving large patches of bare flexmetal showing through the gaps. It was a bulge at least the size of his own head, swelling out over the top of his immovable pelvic plating. It was actually still growing larger as he watched. When he touched it, it seemed that some critical level was reached, as there was a spray of alerts across his HUD indicating dangerous levels of pressure inside his tank, compression of other components that was interfering with their functioning, problems with his center of gravity—
</p><p>
He looked around in a panic. Now that he was aware of it, he felt it jiggling as he moved, the whole huge lump filled with transfluid. He— What could he—
</p><p>
The only solution was painful to think about. He naturally wanted to save every drop of his fluid as a gift for Lord Megatron, but he was now literally in danger of rupturing at least one internal organ. There was no choice but to empty himself for the sake of his own dignity and survival.
</p><p>
Hastily, he called up a map of the citadel and plotted himself a route to the nearest public washracks that would take him mostly through the back corridors. He began to follow it at a brisk walk, the fastest that he dared to move with his abdomen continuing to swell past the point of danger; he cradled the lump in both hands to prevent it from swaying, hoping that that would decrease the chance of anything bursting.
</p><p>
In the washracks, there were open stalls along the sides of the large room and only two with doors at the very end of it. Hoping that no one would turn and see his waddling, panicked gait, Tarn headed for the back, picking one of the two closed stalls, both of which were occupied.
</p><p>
An entangled tank and jet had been literally seconds from sex up against the side of the stall. They both gasped in unison and the jet's spike instantly flagged at the sight of the DJD commander. "<i>Get out</i>," Tarn snarled, stepping aside so the pair could scramble for safety, so frantic that they forgot to close their panels before they vanished into the corridor. Heads were peeking out of the other stalls, curious about what had just happened, but Tarn hid himself inside the little room before, he hoped, anyone could see him in distress.
</p><p>
He opened his panel with a sense of relief, but found that though his spike extended quickly enough, it had such a swollen, clogged feeling that it failed to instantly harden. He tried to focus on opening the aperture at the tip regardless, but it released only a trickle. He needed to be erect before his systems could release the fluid.
</p><p>
With one hand on his growing belly to hopefully keep it from fatal jiggling, he reached down underneath the swelling and took hold of his disobedient spike, preparing to masturbate to save his life. He hastily scrubbed it with his fist, feeling a hint of arousal and cursing himself for having such an active erotic imagination at all other times except when it mattered most. Meanwhile, more errors were popping up on his HUD - rupture and organ failure were immanent.
</p><p>
An image. An image. He needed just one image, just one thing to excite him in the face of a humiliating death.
</p><p>
...Yes, of course! Exactly the thing that he'd been hoping to do when he took the double dose of medicine!
</p><p>
In place of the chipped and stained tile of the shower wall, he saw Lord Megatron bent over the side of their bed, with Tarn standing just behind him, wringing his spike. His master looked over his shoulder and, in the perfect, just-so gravel of his voice, growled, "<i>What are you waiting for? Mount me!</i>"
</p><p>
Tarn's aching spike slowly straightened and lifted itself as he braced his legs wide apart and cocked his hips toward the wall, as if seating himself deep inside the galaxy's most magnificent valve. He was so close--
</p><p>
"<i>Fill me, Tarn!</i>" his master commanded. "<i>Seed me! <b>Impregnate me!!</b></i>"
</p><p>
That was enough, and Tarn thankfully only gave a small whimper instead of a full-throated scream of relief as he began to spray hard against the tile. The fluid poured to the floor and was rivering down the drain in seconds. He stood there, head thrown back and a beatific smile on his face, as it went on and on and on, and he imagined his lord bracing against the mattress to keep steady as Tarn kept emptying himself. 
</p><p>
Yes, his swollen belly was so large, and all of it, every drop, was going into his master's gestation tank. He imagined running his hands over Lord Megatron's flanks and feeling his abdomen swelling as the fluid was transferred between them, his lord's armor parting as he stretched to accept it. "<i>That's right, my loyal one</i>," Megatron purred. "<i>Fill me with your data-seed. I want you, Tarn. I want your child. Give it all to me.</i>" And he did, he did, and he imagined that, right that moment, a datapacket made the long, long journey from valve to spark and struck a bud from his master just then; he cradled his newly-pregnant beloved as his ever-obedient spike provided literal cyber-gallons of raw materials for their child's construction. "<i>That's so good, Tarn. How well you take care of me. How rich and healthy your fluid is. I love you, Tarn.</i>" And though it could only be the love of a master for a good servant, Tarn still sobbed with happiness at imagining it and sprayed the wall a little harder. The liquid was bouncing off the tile and raining back onto his legs.
</p><p>
It took a full three minutes for the stream to even slow down. Then it took another two minutes at a more sedate pace for  his tank to finally shrink back to its accustomed size. Then his spike kept dripping steadily even though his erection had faded, and he stood there, not sure what to do, for another two minutes until he decided to just lock his aperture and put himself away. Then he started up the shower and washed away all evidence of his misdeeds.
</p><p>
He figured that medical confidentiality, combined with the threat of death, would make the medics help him without word getting out about his...experience.
</p><p>
He heard the commotion through the medbay doors.
</p><p>
"Rust you, you miserable creaking relic!" Hook shouted.
</p><p>
"Rust yourself, idiot! How'd you even get licensed??" Ratchet roared back.
</p><p>
"You're good for nothing, you half-dead wreck!" A clang.
</p><p>
"You're a billion years too late to top me, brat! I'll show you <i>rusted!</i>" A sound like furniture being shoved aside.
</p><p>
The door opened on Hook splayed out on an operating table with Ratchet plowing his valve like he was trying to stab his associate in the spark with his cable. "Fuck you, you - <i>antique!</i>" the Decepticon howled. "You trash! You— You <i>Autobot! I hate you!!</i>"
</p><p>
"I'll give that big mouth something to do later, you little—"
</p><p>
Tarn cleared his vocalizer. Two heads turned to look at him and there was a long pause. 
</p><p>
"...Are you dying?" Ratchet finally asked, still hip-deep in the Constructicon. "If not, get out."
</p><p>
"I happen to be a patient in need," Tarn grated. "I require a scan for internal damage."
</p><p>
"...Fine, I guess." Ratchet pulled out and wiped off with one hand while transforming the other into a scanner.
</p><p>
Hook struggled upright and slapped at his shoulder. "Stop that! That's my job!"
</p><p>
"Oh, eat me," Ratchet grumbled. He approached Tarn while looking down at his scanner-hand. "Hm. Quite a lot of organ strain, I see. Self-repair should handle it, though; nothing's broken." Hook had transformed his own hand and was doing a redundant scan, but clearly must not have found anything different because he simply kept frowning absently. "How did you get this pattern of—" Ratchet's head shot up, staring Tarn directly in the eye. "It happened, didn't it. You swelled up and had to drain it off. I <i>knew</i> it was going to happen; did I not <i>warn you</i>— "
</p><p>
"It doesn't matter what it was, as long as it's nothing complicated," Tarn grit out. "There's a question which is far more important than my health." The medics blinked at him. "Will I be capable of servicing our lord tonight? I must be certain of having sufficient transfluid, as well as having my anatomy in good repair. If there will be an issue with the fluid, then I must have another dose of the...assistance." Much as he feared the power of the performance enhancer, he knew that only one dose would be enough to last him through the night without potentially killing him.
</p><p>
Ratchet shook his head in disgust. "You just suffered some significant internal trauma. Megatron's not going to die if he doesn't get had for one night."
</p><p>
"No," Tarn replied smoothly. "<i>But you might.</i>" Ratchet rolled his eyes and left to sort the cupboards. "Well?" the tank demanded of Hook.
</p><p>
"It, ah, according to the scans, you still have some of the drug in your system. It's still building fluid at an enhanced rate, so you should be at more than normal levels by tonight."
</p><p>
"...How much more is 'more than normal'?" Tarn asked cautiously. Regardless of how he fantasized about swelling his lord's belly with his copious spill, he could not turn up at 2100 with another bulge. If nothing else, it would clearly indicate to his lord that he'd been relying on <i>supplements</i>, which would not speak well of Tarn's quality as a sire.
</p><p>
"Maybe a little more than what it was from one dose?"
</p><p>
"...Acceptable, I suppose." At least it wouldn't show externally, though it would be uncomfortable.
</p><p>
...It <i>was</i> uncomfortable. Tarn still had hours to go before it was time to show up for work, and he felt his tank filling up again after only an hour. It was firmer than it should have been after only two hours, and by that time he was pacing his room, having given up on distracting himself with anything. The pressure behind his spike was powerful enough to make him long to drain it, and the urge to touch himself was accompanied by swarms of fantasies that would have been the perfect things to stroke off to. His potential erection kept literally knocking on the inside of its hatch and he was utterly in <i>torment.</i>
</p><p>
Thankfully, Lord Megatron was not in the mood for much foreplay that evening, as he met Tarn out in the sitting area and casually presented himself while leaning his forearms on the back of a couch. He looked over his shoulder with that wry little half-smile when he saw how downright desperate Tarn was to mount him, not knowing that it was, sadly, partly the product of Tarn's intense physical discomfort. Tarn contemplated that sadness as he hammered himself against his master's rump - using the medicine had really taken some of the joy out of his duty instead of truly enhancing it.
</p><p>
After a couple of rounds, they were lying together in their bed (Tarn liked to think of it as <i>their bed</i>) and he finally worked up the courage to ask, "My lord, have I been pleasing you?"
</p><p>
"Certainly," Lord Megatron murmured into the top of Tarn's head.
</p><p>
"Has it been...better the past two nights than before?"
</p><p>
"Hm? Not that I've noticed. It hasn't been worse, either."
</p><p>
At least his quality was consistent. "Do you, perhaps...feel as if my output is...insufficient?"
</p><p>
Lord Megatron laughed. "You think I want <i>more</i> fluid? More would just be a waste. There's a limit to how much can make it inside the tank; the rest just runs right back out of me, as I'm sure you've noticed."
</p><p>
Tarn had. The performance enhancer had really only caused his master to drip even larger pools of spill after every round; there really was no indication that more was actually better. 
</p><p>
"Things are fine the way they are, Tarn," the tyrant said with a note of warning. "Don't get too <i>creative.</i>"
</p><p>
"I understand, Lord." Tarn snuggled down a little more against his master's armor; Lord Megatron grumbled his engine, much less enamored of cuddling than his subordinate. "May I suck you again?"
</p><p>
"You may," his master said, smiling with his eyes closed. And Tarn once again experienced the honor of feeling that perfect spike extend into his mouth and beyond and hearing his lord swear with pleasure; Lord Megatron once again held his head down and facefucked him before unloading into Tarn's throat at his pleasure. That sense of being <i>used</i> for his beloved's enjoyment was a feeling so sweet and tender that it nearly brought tears to Tarn's eyes. He felt so warm and comforted, knowing that his lord found him pleasing. The tankful of his master's data-seed kept him toasty inside as well.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>= This piece can also be subtitled "Childe Tarn and the Isle of Brand-New Kinks."</p>
<p>
= The cumflation episode wasn't originally just to put cumflation in. I have a headcanon where Tarn is actually reliant on a lot of substance use just to keep himself together; we see his morphing addiction and his team's use of nuke, but I think that there's a lot more of the same behind the scenes and he likely justifies it with "performance enhancement." So this was just an episode of performance enhancement gone horribly wrong. (Don't do drugs, kids, or you might cumflate yourself. :B)
</p><p>
= I ordinarily shy away from stories with chapters, even when a story is long, because I worry that I'll need to go back and change some things in earlier parts and posting chapters feels like setting things in stone. But this story is silly, so I figure that it won't matter as much.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>